


The one where Mary sees something she shouldn't have, and sets out to fix it like a boss

by MechanicalMomo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John and Mary loving up on Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalMomo/pseuds/MechanicalMomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary sees something she shouldn't have.</p><p>For the third Lockson challenge, 'Complications.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one where Mary sees something she shouldn't have, and sets out to fix it like a boss

She hadn't meant to see it; she'd been running late for work, blustering about the flat and hurriedly scarfing down toast and peach slices when she hustled into the bathroom and saw that Sherlock's connecting bedroom door was partially open. She had only intended to peek in before heading out; he hadn't come to bed with them last night, she knew, since he had been hunched over some files Molly had sent him and lost to the world, resurfacing momentarily to accept the goodnight kiss Mary had brushed across his temple before following John upstairs.

 

Neither she nor John had any qualms about Sherlock keeping his old room after they had moved into the flat. He often kept late nights and didn't want to disturb their sleep, particularly Mary's as her pregnancy advanced. He knew with that scanning gaze of his exactly how long she had slept and whether or not it had actually been restful, which wasn't often since her burgeoning belly made it difficult to get comfortable. Beyond that they knew he was a private person with solitary tendencies who was still trying to find his place in this new relationship dynamic they shared. On paper, John and Mary were husband and wife; a husband and wife who just so happened to share a mutual affection for and attraction to Sherlock Holmes, and he returned those feelings, though they varied in degrees. He knew now that Mycroft was wrong (a thought that filled him with glee, she knew) in his much-toted belief that caring was a disadvantage, but between Mary's progressing pregnancy and his prickly attitude (shyness, really, in Mary's opinion) towards his body's needs, they hadn't been able to explore this new territory beyond cuddles and tentative touches over clothes. Sherlock just liked to watch them together, really, which they were both more than fine with, but they often wished for him to be more involved, and a lot more naked.

 

Naked, as he was now, sprawled out on his stomach and dead asleep, bare, slender legs tangled in a sheet she knew to be washed regularly; he despised the feel of dirt and roughness on his skin, the strange, fastidious man, and hated what he called the "constringency of pyjamas" while he slept, something she just chalked up to as Sherlock being, well, Sherlock.

 

She always found it strange that someone she had heard about having a distinct lack of shame with his nakedness in most situations would be so skittish behind closed doors, but as she stood stock-still and gaping, she was hit by a sickening wave of realization.

 

A particularly loud snuffle brought her crashing back down, and as the dark-haired man shifted slightly in his sleep, she fled, the picture of Sherlock's pale, boney back rent with innumerable scars etched permanently into her memory.

 

 

The image stayed with her throughout the day, always behind her eyelids when she blinked, leaving her unable to concentrate on anything but keeping that nauseous feeling at bay. She had seen much in her time as a nurse, and of course she was (very) intimately acquainted with John's war wounds, but what she had seen this morning was beyond anything she had ever dealt with. Where had they come from? Who had inflicted them? Even now, Sherlock remained silent on his two years away, and given what Mary had witnessed, with good reason.

 

Which likely meant that John had no idea; John who loved and forgave, but could not forget the hurt of those years alone, or confusion the subsequent months that followed Sherlock's reappearance had wrought. She was at a complete loss as to what she would do. Should she tell John and risk losing Sherlock’s trust? Should she ask Sherlock about it and risk the cold, indifferent reaction she was bound to get? Or did she ignore it, pretend she hadn't seen?

The resultant flash of marred skin in her mind's eye told her she could not.

 

Three days later and she was still no closer to a solution. Things were complicated between the three of them as it was, and Lord knew that her men were easily the most repressed and emotionally stifled people on the planet, so a normal, adult conversation about the matter was out of the question. She floundered in an unfamiliar situation, battled herself as she lay in bed, sleepless with anxiety. John and Sherlock were out with Greg at a new crime scene, so the flat was quiet and the bed empty, leaving her with nothing to do but think. The call had come in as they were cleaning up after dinner and out the door they went, leaving Mary grinning until she saw Sherlock shrugging on his beloved Belstaff, watching his shoulders scrunch up with the movement. Her smile slipped briefly but was back in place as they turned to kiss her goodbye, one on each cheek, before whirling out the door in a bustle of noise, half-formed theories already bouncing between them.

And so here she lay, desperately wishing her mind would shut off, would find some sort of answer, when she heard footsteps clambering up the front steps, cheerful voices attempting to be quiet and only mostly failing. Sitting up, she slid her feet into her slippers and plodded down the stairs, meeting her boys in the living room, both already in their respective chairs, laptop in one set of hands and violin in another.

“Good case, then?” She asked, settling on the arm of John’s chair.

“Boring, solved it,” Sherlock replied, though he didn’t sound that put out about it, concern already knitting his brows together as he eyed her. “Shouldn’t you be asleep? Did we wake you?”

“No, no, I was already awake, couldn’t sleep,” she answered with an airy wave of her hand. “So no dark alley chases, huh? No dramatic stand-offs?”

“Nothing of that sort, I’m afraid,” John grinned. “Though it wasn’t as easily solved as he’s making it out to be, he wouldn’t be so cheerful otherwise.”

“Struggled a bit, did you,” she laughed as the detective’s lip curled disdainfully.

They bantered for a bit while John typed up the case on his blog, suggesting titles, each more ridiculous than the last, while Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in his most put-upon way. She felt warm and relaxed in a way she hadn’t felt in days, the easy camaraderie and affection flowing between them. Sherlock like this, as free and unselfconscious as he was able to get, running commentary and gesturing unreservedly, and John too, open and demonstrative, nudging his friend with his socked toes and calling him a crazed tit in a fond tone, she could imagine nights at Baker Street before, and it would have been perfect if she hadn’t known that these two had been burying their feelings even then. She had to put a stop to it, possible repercussions be damned. Finally, John closed his laptop, interrupting her thoughts, and helped Mary to stand, yawning widely.

“Well, as fun as that was, I think it’s time for you to get some sleep, young lady,” he said, herding her towards the stairs. Bidding goodnight to the dark-haired man in his chair, John began to shuffle up the steps, stopping in his tracks when Mary spoke, suddenly sure of what she should do.

“Sherlock,” she began, nervous, but forcing herself to continue. “Would you like to come to bed with us?”

Blinking in confusion at the soft-spoken request, the detective opened his mouth, but she interrupted him with a quiet, determined “Please?”

Silence stretched the seconds into hours, days, years, before he finally nodded and slowly, unsurely, stood to follow.

Taking his hand, she turned to John and nodded reassuringly at his troubled face, and the three of them headed up to their bedroom, earth-shatteringly quiet as the door closed behind them.

Coming up behind Sherlock, Mary rested her hands on his shoulder blades, not missing the way he flinched. John watched them with an unreadable expression as her hands slid around his waist to the buttons of his shirt.

Whirling around in alarm, the dark-haired detective eyed the woman before him, his eyes wide. “You know,” he breathed, his tone scared and slightly accusatory.

Wordlessly, Mary looked at her feet and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Looking up at him, the words tumbled out of her mouth as she tried to explain.

“I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, the door was open the other morning and I peeked in to see you and…” her words tapered off as she looked down again. “I’m sorry.”

John regarded the scene with confusion. “What are you talking about? What’s going on? Sherlock?” he looked to his friend, who determinedly kept his eyes on Mary.

“I know it’s something you probably don’t want to talk about,” she started up again, though less rushed than before. “And you don’t have to, ever, if you don’t want. But I thought maybe…we could help? You know we both love you, Sherlock. All of you.”

His expression remained indecipherable, and just as John stepped forward to say something, he turned away from them, and Mary felt her chest cave in. She was beginning to regret her actions when suddenly Sherlock raised his arms to the side, his body rigid and his head bowed.

Stunned, Mary blinked once, twice, a third time, before slowly, carefully, stepping up behind Sherlock again, her hands gingerly coming around to his front to undo his shirt buttons.

The room was silent except for Sherlock’s sharp inhales, ragged breaths that grew louder with each button undone. Finally the last button slipped out of its hole and Sherlock stood, arms out and shirt hanging open, and Mary slowly began to peel the shirt from his shoulders, revealing his scarred skin to the lamplight and John’s widening eyes.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, taking tentative steps towards them. “What…” he swallowed thickly as he reached a hand out to trace a particularly nasty mark between his shoulder blades. “Are these…”

The detective remained stiff and silent, but John wasn’t having it. Grabbing the taller man’s shoulder, John spun him round until they were face to face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his toned pained, hurt for himself and his friend, but the man remained silent.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” he grit out when he received no answer.

“What was I to say?” the answer came finally, soft, a little biting, a little defensive. “It was my cross to bear. I knew what I was getting into, I knew the risks.”

“You were captured, tortured, before Mycroft got you out…Mycroft,” the smaller man snarled, his fists clenching. “Mycroft knew, didn’t he? He knew, and he didn’t say a word.”

“Mycroft was the one who pulled me out of the…facility they kept me in. He was there as it happened. He said nothing because I bade him say nothing.”

“He was there?” John barked angrily. “He watched you…and did nothing?”

“He couldn’t very well step in and blow his cover, could he?”

Breathing heavily, John spun Sherlock away again, taking in the marred flesh of his back with his eyes and tracing them all with his fingers.

“He shouldn’t have let this happen to you,” he bit out, resting his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“It was a small price to pay.”

With that simple statement, all of the tension bled out of John, out of Sherlock, and Mary took their hands, kissed them tenderly before leading them to the bed.

Together, she and John took their time with Sherlock between them, memorizing each of his scars, categorizing them with hands and lips, and attempting to erase them with gentle words and loving tongues. He trembled under their ministrations, still shy, still unsure, but he allowed them to turn him over and repeat their performance on his front all the same. They brought him off gently, slowly, with soft, warm hands, and he lay gasping afterwards, and then they kissed away the tears that prickled his eyes and threatened to fall. They kept him between them as he slept, their arms and legs tangled until they lost sight of where one of them ended and another began.

And as he himself drifted off, not for the first time, John was glad he’d married Mary.


End file.
